Atonement
by Marla Fair
Summary: A slightly extended version of a story written for the Bonanza Boomers February Pennings from Prompts Challenge where we had to use the phrase 'you are enough'. Six year old Little Joe thinks he has committed the unforgivable sin. Can he atone?


Atonement

oooooooooooooooo

Little Joe Cartwright sniffed in snot and hunkered down against the hill. It was dusk and he knew the men following him would have a hard, if not impossible time spotting him. After all, he was no 'bigger than a minute' as his twelve year old brother Hoss was always reminding him. A 'minute' couldn't be too hard to hide for an hour or so before they gave up looking for him.

When it got dark, which would be soon, they'd have too.

The six-year-old glanced at the saddle bag he'd thrown together, which was hanging off of another root near his elbow. He'd borrowed – well, _taken_ – one of Hoss' since his own was small and wouldn't hold enough for the journey he was taking. He'd 'borrowed' from the kitchen too, making sure he had enough water and food for at least two days. He'd really wanted to bring his pony, Cadfan, along, but Cadfan was his Pa's and after what happened, he wasn't gonna do anything to make his Pa hate him more. Joe swallowed over a lump of emotion.

After all, he wanted to come home...someday.

The sounds of the two men searching for him had grown farther away; their voices, fainter. He'd been real smart when he'd chosen his hiding place, using his head like older brother Adam always told him too. His pa knew all of his usual hidey-holes and so he'd chosen a new one – one he wasn't too fond of – halfway down a ravine wall in a depression sunk into its side that was full of spring mud and muck. He'd pressed his lean body into it and held onto a tree root for dear life when he heard the strong step of his pa's boots overhead. In the distance, Hop Sing was yelling his name – _Little Joe, Mistah Joe! You come home. Father mad no more. Little Joe!_

Joe closed his eyes. He wanted to believe it, but he didn't. He...couldn't. Like the preacher'd said on Sunday, what he'd done was a cardinal sin and you didn't go home for one of those, you went to Hell.

He didn't want to go to Hell.

So, what he was doing was making 'recompense'. That was something else the preacher had mentioned. He had to atone for his wrongs and to do it, he had to go where he was going and nothing and _no one_ – not even his pa – was gonna stop him.

Besides, Hop Sing had it wrong.

Pa was never gonna forgive him.

As the voices receded further, Joe cautiously eased out of the depression and looked up. The sky had started spitting water when he heard his pa and Hop Sing coming. It was still raining, only harder now. The clouds overhead had been rounded up by the wind, gathered together so close they just about shut out the moon. Joe peered down at the creek bed below him. It wasn't rushing, but the water's speed had definitely picked up with the rain. He needed to cross it to get where he was going. The last time his pa had taken him, they'd been riding Pa's new buckskin. In spite of how weary he was – how tired and how lonely – Joe snorted with a laugh. Leave it to pa to name a buckskin 'Buck'. He didn't remember much about his ma, but he did remember her shouting something at Pa once about him having no imagination.

Joe winced with pain.

Ma.

Joe sucked in a sob as he released the big root he held.

Yep, Pa was _never_ gonna forgive him.

With the concentration of a six year old doing his sums, Joe lifted the saddlebag from its perch and then, using the same care, began to work his way down the side of the hill, slipping and sliding as he went. The rain was falling heavier now, driving his already sodden brown curls into his eyes, making it hard to see. He looked down and saw a gray-brown rock sticking out of the ravine wall, just big enough to use as a stepping stone. Keeping his eyes on it, Joe carefully placed his boot on its back only to find that it wasn't a rock at all.

Seconds later, with a high-pitched yelp, both he and the indignant turtle went tumbling down the slope.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

He didn't know how long it was, but – when he opened his eyes – Joe was mighty happy to find that he wasn't drowned. It puzzled him though 'cause he wasn't cold or wet anymore either. In fact, he was warm and dry. He looked down and saw that he was dressed not only in a borrowed shirt three times his size, but wrapped from top to toe in a warm woolen blanket. There was a small fire blazing nearby. For a moment he wondered why the rain wasn't putting it out and then he realized he was in one of the river caves.

A second later he knew how he got there.

"Well, young man," a stern voice inquired, "what do you have to say for yourself?"

Joe blanched beneath his father's anger. He knew it. He _knew_ it! Pa was still sore as a saddle blister.

"Where's Hop Sing?" he asked in a small voice.

"Never you mind where Hop Sing is," Pa ordered. "Joseph, I want an answer!"

Sucking in a lot of things – snot, tears, shame, rage _and_ fear – Joe held his head up and met his father's severe gaze.

"I ain't sorry!" he pouted, his lower lip sticking out. "You didn't have to follow me!"

The stern look turned into one of disbelief. "Didn't have to follow? Of course, I –"

"No, you didn't! I know you hate me now! I was going to mama's grave and then – "

"And _then?"_

Joe's bravado fell flat as he blinked back tears. "I don't know." He sniffed again. "Anywhere but _here_."

His father watched him for a moment and then took a seat by his side. For several heartbeats he said nothing, then only, "Why, Joe? Why?"

It didn't come easy. His brothers always said he liked to talk and talk and talk, but that was about silly, stupid interesting things not...this.

Finally, drawing a deep breath, he answered, "I committed a cardinal sin and I gotta atone."

His father shot him a look. Was that amusement he saw in those near-black eyes?

"Cardinal sin, eh? What sin?" After a second he added, "Joseph, does this have to do with what happened to your mother's portrait?"

He'd thrown it to the floor and broke the frame and the glass had split and cut into the tiny canvas it was painted on, slicing his ma's head near in two. He shouldn't have thrown it, he knew that, but he was _so_ mad. All Pa ever did was stare at it. When he needed him. When he wanted him to do something with or for him. When he wanted – no, _needed_ – that kind of attention his dead mother always got it. He'd shouted, well, _screamed_ that as his pa before he ran, adding , 'I bet you wish I was dead instead of her!"

"Little Joe?"

He nodded.

The older man reached out and placed a hand on his blanketed knee. "Joseph, what you said... Do you really believe that I wish _you_ had died and your mother lived?"

It was a direct question. He gave a direct answer. "Yes, sir."

His father sighed. "Son, I owe you an apology."

Joe's mobile brows dipped toward his nose. "Huh?"

"Since your mother died, well, I haven't been a very good father. I've been...living in the past and missing the present. It's just that I loved Marie so." He glanced at him. "Do you understand?"

' _No'_ , he thought, but said, "Yes."

The older man's smile was sad. "I see." Opening his arms, Pa indicated he should move into them. "Come here, son."

 _Son._ That word! Pa'd called him a mess of things when he saw what had happened to the picture of his mama.

'Son' wasn't one of them.

As Joe settled into his father's arms, the older man spoke again. "I was wrong, Joseph. Plain and simple. The Good Book tells fathers not to anger their sons. I angered you."

Joe snorted. "Adam says it don't take much to do that."

His father laughed. "Yes, he does. And it's 'doesn't' not 'don't."

"Yes, sir." The little boy paused. "I miss Adam."

"So do I, son. I miss his counsel. Your older brother would have brought me up short before I got so far out of line. He would have reminded me of what is important." His Pa looked down at him. "I guess, since he's gone, it's a good thing I've got you."

That surprised him. "Me? You mean, what _I_ say is important?"

His father nodded. "Every man needs a compass to keep his course set straight. I...lost mine when your mother died."

Pa'd been a sailor. He was always saying things like that.

"I guess what I am trying to say, Joseph, is that I was blessed to have the two of you – your mother _and_ you – and I am twice blessed that the Lord has seen fit to leave you here with me. " His voice grew tense. "You know you could have died if you had hit that rushing water."

He nodded.

"What I am trying to say, son, is that _you_ are enough. Your mother is still here with me, with you and within you."

Joe was silent a moment. "What about mama's picture?"

"It can be mended." His father released him and then straightened up. Rising, he held out his hand for him to follow. "It will however cost considerable money and, until it is paid for, one-half of your weekly allowance will go toward getting that done. Is that understood, young man?"

He nodded his curly brown head again.

When he stood there, saying nothing and looking thoughtful, his father asked, "Joseph, do you have a question?"

"Yes, sir."

The older man waited. "Well?"

"Is that what the preacher means by 'atonement'?"

His father stared at him and then reached out to place a hand on his head. "That a big word for a small boy, but yes."

"Do you got somethin' you need to atone for too, Pa?"

His pa looked at him hard and then nodded his head.

"That's why I'm paying the other half."


End file.
